


Bildungsromane

by cthulhuswaifu



Category: Stand Still Stay Silent
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop & Tattoo Parlor, Dysfunctional Family, Emil Has Issues, Emil is a Good Friend, Lalli Is Cats, Like really slow, M/M, Slow Burn, Slow To Update, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, Taru Knows All, Tuuri is the Ultimate Wingwoman, Will update tags, angst maybe??
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:53:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25573891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cthulhuswaifu/pseuds/cthulhuswaifu
Summary: Emil is a student and tattoo artist desperately trying to forget his past. Lalli is a flower shop employee looking ahead to his future. What starts as a chance encounter when Emil is buying flowers for a reference grows into a story about family, self-discovery, and hopefully, a brighter future.
Relationships: Lalli Hotakainen & Emil Västerström, Lalli Hotakainen/Emil Västerström
Comments: 12
Kudos: 13





	1. Chapter 1

The Västerström family household was not a quiet place. It housed three rambunctious preteens, two exhausted parents, and one very, remarkably noisy cat and as such, it was not well-known for being a place of focus and calm, except for the middle of the night, when even Bosse’s meows were quieter and the streets of Södertälje grew still. Emil’s room was a recently-converted storage room with just enough space for a bed, desk, modest dresser, and whatever items he could store on and around them, and was the only room in the house with a consistent source of noise. More specifically, noises of frustration. 

Emil was in over his head. 

He held his sketchbook out in front of him, thick brows furrowed as he stared at the smudged graphite and eraser marks that were _supposed_ to be the concept designs for his first major project as a tattoo apprentice. It was going very, _very_ poorly. Emil prided himself on his art, and when Taru came to him to discuss her new client, he was brimming with confidence and even when she made sure he was up to the task of designing such a large piece, he assured her he was more than ready.

He was not more than ready.

What was supposed to be a chest piece of tangled vines and flowers was turning out to be flatter and more curated than a patch of forest life should be. No matter how many different angles he tried and what arrangement the flowers were, he couldn’t quite get them to mesh and collide in a convincing way which, as he had figured out already, could make or break his work. He let out an agonized groan, halfheartedly tossing the sketchbook to the far side of his desk and leaning back in the squeaky, uncomfortable rolling chair. God, if he couldn’t draw flowers, of all things, how the hell was he supposed to get anywhere?

What was supposed to earn him his stripes as a competent apprentice was turning out to be a disaster for his patience and ego. In all honesty, Taru probably wouldn’t be upset with the difficulty he was having but he was upset, and as the person more or less in charge of what would be inked on someone’s body forever, being upset with his work was one of the worst things that could happen to him. Worse still was actually inking clumsy work onto someone which was significantly more mortifying and-

He groaned again, frustrated at the endless spiral his brain was about to go on. He had dealt with enough of getting down on himself for one night and reached over to check his phone for the time. 2 am. He had wasted actual hours on an aggravating, pointless endeavor when he could’ve been studying or something. Another sigh and a stretch. The carpeted floor creaked as he shuffled to bed, hardly bothering to change besides peeling off his socks. He may have been lying in bed intending to sleep in jeans, but only a monster sleeps in socks.

The next morning came far too early, with Emil’s legs uncomfortably sweaty and the squealing of his cousins penetrating the thin walls. After last night’s frustrations and subsequent lack of sleep, he was loathe to actually get up and face the day, especially so after being woken by Anna’s yelling about… something. Whatever it was about, she was clearly upset and was apparently also hitting Sune about it. 

Absolutely irredeemable, those ones. 

Whatever Emil’s opinions on his little cousins were, there was absolutely no chance of him getting back to sleep now, and instead of continuing to lie in his rumpled jeans and t-shirt, wallowing in self-pity, he decided this was a good a time as any to start the day.

The rest of the morning was fittingly chaotic, and what felt like ten minutes at most turned out to be half an hour of frantic eating and searching for misplaced books before his three cousins were on their way to school. Emil could see Siv and Torbjörn visibly deflate as soon as the door closed, and even he felt his shoulders relax as the tension in the room alleviated. Now he and his aunt and uncle were alone, and that meant-

Dammit.

Emil walked as nonchalantly as he could over to the kitchen counter, where a cooling plate of eggs and toast were waiting for him. He had almost made it back to the stairs with his plate before Siv called: “Emil? Do you mind eating down here for today?”

There it was. 

Emil grimaced for a moment but turned back to the table anyway, still trying to walk with an air of relaxation, even if he knew what eating at the table meant: money talk. As an adult, Emil was entitled to knowledge of his aunt’s and uncle’s financial situation, and now more than ever, money was tight. They had a whole other adult person living in the house now, and that drove grocery expenses and electricity and water bills through the roof, and like every time they had this conversation, Emil gave a backhanded apology that he immediately regretted but refused to fix. 

He left after only finishing his eggs.

He knew it was a shitty thing to do but he had enough on his plate with school and apprenticing and every other minute problem that came with it, even if the tiny voice in the back of his head reminded him that wasn’t an excuse for being a jerk. He wrenched his eyes shut and reminded himself that he’d have to apologize, but that would have to come later.

Right now, all that mattered to him was figuring out that damn tattoo design. 

It took another hour of stubborn sketching before Emil gave in and admitted to himself that the reason he couldn’t get it to work was not because he was excessively tired the night before, but because without a real, physical reference, it would come off as flat and amateurish. And references were… Whatever.

He let out a dramatic sigh, feeling around for his phone so he could search for nearby flower shops. Turns out there were plenty, but after a rudimentary search he realized how pricey they were, and given the corporate feel of a lot of them, chances were they wouldn’t allow some random art student to come in and manhandle their stock without him buying anything. 

He sat, staring at his sketches for a while longer before two stray synapses finally connected and he lunged for his phone. Taru was a tattooing veteran, and despite being a very mild-looking middle-aged woman, she knew the ropes like no other. Maybe she could lend a hand, and considering flowers were a vague topic, there was a chance she might not realize Emil wasn’t as prepared as he would have liked for the commission. 

Then he looked at the time and practically squawked. He had almost forgotten about his classes in that morning’s rush. He was planning on talking to Siv and Torbjörn again once he had cooled down a bit, but it seemed he would have to delay that a bit further. With the speed to challenge an Olympic sprinter, he packed his bags and slipped on his shoes, just barely remembering his metro card as he rushed out of his room and back down the stairs. He would have time to text Taru on the long train ride to Stockholm. 

It was still summery out despite it being September, and southern Sweden’s humidity was out in full force despite the cloudless sunshine. From the moment Emil left the house, he could more or less clock out and let his feet carry him the correct place. Basically immediately out of high school he had moved in with his aunt and uncle and been enrolled in the Royal Institute of Art, courtesy of his parents, and was already starting his second year of taking the long commute from Södertälje to Stockholm. 

As soon as the first leg of his trip was underway, Emil dug into his pocket for his phone, already composing a message in his head.

[You]  
Taru, I’ve been looking around for someplace selling affordable flowers, can’t find anything hopeful. Any ideas?

Taru responded almost immediately. Huh.

[Taru Hollola]  
Oh? What do you need flowers for?

She knew, didn’t she? 

[You]  
I need to brighten up my room. Inspiration

He hoped that was good enough. 

Who was he kidding? She already _knew_ , he was such a shitty artist and tattooist that only got into the Royal Institute because his parents payed-

The phone buzzed again, snapping Emil from his thoughts.

[Taru Hollola]   
A friend of mine runs a shop in Södermalm. I’ll send the directions, you just tell the employees that you know me. 

Well, at least she was being decent about it.

[You]  
Thanks

Emil let out a sigh of relief, glad his pride hadn’t been completely crushed by his poorly-hidden plea for help and settled in for the long ride to the city center.

As usual, classes took forever. Today was relatively simple, with Emil’s tiny class set up around the room, painting the model posed in the center of their circle, the harsh lights from her setup casting stark shadows across the angles of her body. The realities of painting nude models were not as glamorous or risque as the media could portray it, with the students more focused on the shades and composition of the body rather than ogling certain _anatomies_ the model may have. Besides, after being in a tattoo parlor for the better part of a year, nudity didn’t particularly phase Emil, and he couldn’t see this woman’s nude body as anything more than a canvas. 

Even as he dabbed paint along the planes of her back, he couldn’t help but imagine the ink blooming on her pale skin. 

His dad would be so pleased to know this was where his expensive education was going.

Ultimately, Emil’s professor passed his painting, but he couldn’t care less about the sharp look he got for not fully tuning into his work. Taru had sent the location of the shop while he was in class - he wasn’t sure why it had taken her so long, maybe she got caught up at work - and he had been practically aching to check his phone. The message was there waiting for him:

[Taru Hollola]  
Look for Hotakainen Floral on Hornsgatan and Torkel Knutssonsgatan. It’s a little tucked away, so be sure to look carefully.

[You]  
Thanks Taru. I’ll let you know when I find it

Emil once again shouldered his bags, inwardly grimacing at the prospect of having to carry them for the rest of the day, but hid it as well as he could as he looked up the metro route.

The metro station was packed at this time in the afternoon, most day jobs were coming to a close and in Norrmalm, Emil felt very out of place in the sea of suits and ties as he lugged his portfolio and backpack with him through the mob of businesspeople. As he finally budged his way into the car and found a spot where he could stand comfortably, he took note of the notably not-Swedish name of the establishment. Hotakainen was far from any Swedish surname Emil was familiar with and considering Taru’s nationality, it was safe to assume the owners were Finnish. It was remarkable to Emil that in all the time he knew her, she had never mentioned any Finnish friends of hers, especially ones holed up in Stockholm, running a flower shop, of all things. 

But Emil was in no place to blame her for not telling him anything. As close as the bond between mentor and apprentice could be, he was never especially forthcoming about asking about her personal history, preferring to vent to her about his own vain issues than listen to hers. Given his brattiness, he was honestly surprised that she put up with him. Maybe he should ask about her time in Finland sometime. 

The train lurched to a stop at Mariatorget, his destination, and Emil was, once more, forced out of his head and into the real world, where a current of people was weaving their way around him and out of the train. He hurriedly gathered his things and followed them out, up the stairs, and onto the street. As always, Södermalm on a Friday was full of people meandering and shopping, and after being stuck in a tube with many fancy people, Emil was thankful to be out in the fresh air among the common folk. 

His search for Hotakainen Floral was not a long one, it was only barely off the main strip and sported a rustic sign out front with the open times and deals written in colorful, loopy handwriting, and as Emil got closer, he noticed a doodle of a fluffy little bird in the corner with a tufty crest of feathers sat atop its head. For a shop set in a corporate business area, it was rather charming.

The bells above the door jingled cheerfully as Emil opened it to reveal what felt like a whole new world. Either these Hotakainen people had much more money than he had previously assumed or they were very, very clever with interior decor. The space was cozy and yet still efficiently arranged, with bays and shelves of flowers lining the walls and dividing the space into tidy aisles while still leaving a space near the back of the store where, from what Emil could tell, was a little seating arrangement of high-backed chairs and coffee tables across from a long counter. The space seemed to be entirely lit by lamps and string lights adorning the ceiling and walls, and some were even looped around the rods that held dangling baskets full of countless colorful plants. Nobody besides Emil appeared to be there, except for a round-faced woman reading a book behind the counter and a lanky man tending stock along the wall. Both their hair was a light silver-gray, and he would have been surprised if they weren’t dyed.

“Hello!” called the woman from behind the counter, looking up from her book and offering a small wave. “How can I help you today?”

“Uh… Hi,” Emil replied dumbly, still in awe of the space. 

The woman looked at him expectantly, tilting her head the slightest bit, the piles of fluffy hair of her undercut flopping with it. It was only after a couple of seconds of awkward silence that Emil remembered why he was there. “Oh! Hi, yeah, Taru sent me? Taru Hollola?”

At the mention of Taru’s name, the woman absolutely lit up. “You must be Emil! Taru called to let us know you would be coming, it’s been so long since she sent anyone over. I’m Tuuri, and over there is my cousin Lalli.”

Tuuri gestured to the man over in the corner, who turned at the mention of his name. From what Emil could tell, they looked totally different for people so closely related, aside from the hair color, and appeared to be just as different in demeanor as well. Tuuri called out in what was most likely Finnish - suddenly Emil connected Taru’s accent to the cadences of the language - and when all she got was a disinterested “mh,” she pouted exaggeratedly but returned to the conversation with Emil anyway.

“He’s a bit shy, don’t worry about him. Everyone else is out right now, but I think I can help you out. What did you need?” She was all smiles again, leaning forward on her elbows.

“Oh, do you have- hang on,” Emil fumbled for his phone to check the description of the tattoo and the flowers listed as parts of the piece. “Any of these?” He held out the phone to her, and Tuuri squinted to read the small text on the screen.

She listed them off one by one under her breath, occasionally peeking around the store. “We have most of those, I’ll have to call Onni to order some of the others, but yes! What do you need them for?”

“I need them for a project.”

Tuuri nodded. “Ok, since you’re close to Taru, I can offer a family discount, and that will end up being… around 650 krona, if my math is good.”

Emil balked. No way he was spending that much just to draw some flowers. “Do you think… I could just borrow them?”

Tuuri tilted her head. “Why would you have to borrow them?”

Emil sighed, scratching his head. “I need references for a tattoo and since these kinds of expenses are out-of-pocket, I’m really trying to keep the price down.”

Tuuri crossed her arms and furrowed her short brows in thought for a moment. “I… guess? If you keep it in-store only, maybe? Ensi might be a little irritated if I just let a customer come in to handle the plants without buying anything, but if you’re with Taru… it should be fine.”

“Oh, thank God,” Emil sighed, feeling the stress lighten just a little. 

“Though, you’ll probably have to coordinate with Lalli on that. I don’t have an eye for arrangements like he does, and if you want it to look right, you’ll have to work with him.”

Emil shot a glance back over to the man, who was suddenly closer, tending to some of the flowers in the hanging baskets. “He doesn’t know a whole lot of Swedish, so let me know if you need a translator.”

“Okay, thank you,” Emil dipped his head and barely caught Tuuri’s “mm-hmm” of acknowledgment as she looked back down at her book. 

Emil took a few hesitant steps towards Lalli, who looked away from his work only for the briefest of moments, giving Emil a glimpse of intense, frosty blue eyes before returning to what he was doing. “Hello?” Emil greeted carefully, hoping he at least knew that much. Lalli looked back, stared for a moment, and promptly pivoted to face the other side of the aisle. 

Emil was undeterred, now determined to get a response. He carried on, “I’m Emil. Tuuri said you could help me? I need to find these flowers and I don’t know the first thing about arrangements-”

He was cut off as Lalli turned to the counter and began speaking very loudly at Tuuri, arms crossed indignantly and stare pointed. Tuuri returned with equal energy, leaving Emil very lost until Lalli rolled his eyes dramatically and turned to Emil. With a decidedly annoyed expression, he asked in heavily accented Swedish: “Which flowers?”

Startled by the sudden response, Emil produced the list on his phone once more, and was taken completely off-guard as Lalli swiped the phone and very matter-of-factly strode off. Emil was so stunned by the unusual response he simply sat there, watching in surprise as Lalli scoured the aisles, picking and choosing flowers seemingly at random as Tuuri let out a small groan. “Sorry about him, he’s… stubborn.”

“Uh-huh.”

After a few minutes of near silence beside the rusting of flowers and occasional snippets of Finnish between Tuuri and Lalli, the latter returned with his phone and a miscellaneous glass vase with the carefully arranged bouquet placed inside and held it out, straight-armed to Emil. “Thanks,” Emil said as he took them, only a little dumbfounded at this point, to which Lalli closed his eyes and responded with a satisfied “Mm,” before walking off once again.

Emil looked back at Tuuri, who had once again buried herself in her book but looked up once Emil asked, “It’s okay if I draw them over there, right?” pointing over to the setup of chairs and coffee tables. 

“Yup, it’s fine. We do close in not too long here, so if you really need it, I can save those and you can come back tomorrow.”

With permission granted, Emil dragged his bags over to the back, set the vase on a table, produced his sketchbook and pencils, and for the first time the whole time he had been there, he took a good long look at the arrangement before him.

Tuuri was not kidding when she said Lalli had an eye for composition. Looking at the flowers properly, he noticed there was a certain kind of flow to the way they were placed. Even he, who was more or less a classically trained artist at this point, could not see what Lalli had been working off to produce such a strange and beautiful arrangement, but flowers were not his medium. If floral arrangements could be considered fine art, this would definitely earn a place at the Institute. He shot a glance back over to the unassuming man and back at the flowers, then to his sketchbook. Even if some of the flowers were missing, this was more than he had ever hoped for upon coming.

Eventually, Tuuri called for him, letting him know they were closing and he would have to save the rest for later. He watched as she carefully poured in some water into the vase and covered it with a plastic bag and some rubber bands. “Thanks for letting me draw those,” Emil said after Tuuri had set the flowers aside in a back room.

“Any friend of Taru is welcome to whatever they need here. Feel free to come back tomorrow,” she finished in a chipper tone as she began to sweep the storefront. 

Emil smiled and nodded, picking up his bags and making his way to the door, turning back to wave goodbye to Lalli. As was clearly part of his character, Lalli simply stared and returned to what he was doing, but hey, Emil had tried.

He left the store and stepped into the night thoughtful. Maybe it was the lack of sleep or something weird Siv and Torbjörn had slipped into his breakfast, but he found himself considering the odd company at Hotakainen Floral almost all the way home, only remembering about twenty minutes out from Södertälje that he was intending to apologize for his asshole behavior at breakfast. Right. Apologizing.

He opened the door to see Siv and Torbjörn and all three of his cousins plus Bosse hunkered on the couch, television on to some cooking channel, and books in hand. Emil took a seat on the floor, leaning up against the couch and letting his cousins play with his hair as he scrolled through his phone. He saw a new message from Taru:

[Taru Hollola]  
I assume you found it?

[You]  
Yeah. Thanks for helping me out

[Taru Hollola]  
Anything for my apprentice. Do send a picture of your room with your new decorations ;)

Emil groaned. The lie had caught up with him already. He decided to ignore it and scroll through his various social media feeds for a while instead, waiting until his cousins had gone to bed to talk to Siv and Torbjörn about that morning.

It was a while before Siv ushered the kids through the nighttime routine since Torbjörn had dozed off on the couch with some book about economics on his chest - no wonder he had fallen asleep - and as soon as Siv returned, Emil took a proper seat on the couch. He took a deep breath, letting it out in a sigh, and turned to Siv. “I’m sorry about this morning,” he began. “I was under a lot of stress and I know that’s not acceptable anyway-”

Siv cut him off. “You’re okay. I know school and everything has been tough lately. Even so, apology accepted.”

Emil blinked owlishly, not expecting her to speak up so quickly. She continued, “We will have to talk more about money, but we’ll save that for when your uncle is awake. Go to bed, Emil.”

“Right. Goodnight,” Emil said, standing up to grab his bags and haul them up to his room.

It had been an eventful day, but even as Emil lay in bed, in proper pajamas this time, he found himself unable to sleep, mind kept busy by the constant thoughts about the Hotakainens and his project and anything and everything else that had happened that day. He knew his aunt and uncle had been in financial trouble since his parents essentially cut them off from his family, and even if Emil’s father was paying for his tuition, he had chosen to live out in Södertälje and was putting even more strain on this branch of the Västerströms, maybe because it was more convenient, or maybe it was just meant to be another kick in the teeth for his parents. 

God, he did not want to think about his parents right now. Even a year after his move, the wounds felt fresh. Instead, he chose to focus on the flower shop. There was something about that place, like for a moment he wasn’t in one of the busiest districts in Stockholm and was instead in a new, safe place where he wasn’t known as a brat or an asshole or some horrific amalgamation of the two. He had originally moved as a sort of fresh start, he supposed, and maybe he was finally getting it after a year and some of living there. He figured he would have to thank Taru again, but she was most likely asleep, so he opted instead to download Duolingo. Apparently, they taught Finnish now.


	2. Chapter 2

_ When Siv and Torbjörn agreed to bring Emil into their home, he was ecstatic. His parents had bought him an apartment in Stockholm, but for obvious reasons, he didn’t want to take up their offer. Even if his room was practically a closet and his cousins were obnoxious and the commute to Stockholm was long, he was absolutely in love. After years of passive-aggression and indifference, he was finally  _ at home  _ somewhere.  _

_ Well, at home was a bit of a stretch for a while. Even if he had immediately fallen in love with a house too large for the less monetarily stable branch of his family, settling in after a life of luxury and privilege took a while. Emil remembered the sleepless nights and creeping downstairs at late hours only to find Siv and Torbjörn already sitting at the table, hands around mugs of hot cocoa, seemingly waiting for him to come down.  _

_On those nights, they always talked. They talked about anything and everything, with Emil mostly loading his issues onto them and their very gracious replies to his plights. Eventually, Emil asked why they were always up so late. It turned out that was just a part of a daily routine, a late-night mug of hot cocoa to unwind after the kids had gone to bed. Emil rather liked being in on it, even if he only joined them occasionally. He felt seen during those times, a far cry from what he was used to._

_One time they got on the topic of his parents. He asked what they were like before Emil was born, and he could practically feel Torbjörn’s tension. Siv laid a hand on his forearm when he talked. “My brother is honestly one of the most stuck-up individuals I have had the displeasure of meeting. It improved slightly when he met your mother, but he’s always been so self-important,” he paused, distaste clear in his voice._

_“Your mother… I could never tell what she was thinking. I don’t know why she married him, to be honest,” he finished, taking a sip from his mug._

_Emil sighed quietly. “I’m going to bed,” he said, taking a final drink from his mug, leaving it half-empty on the table. “Good night.”_

_After that, he didn’t bring up his parents at their late-night talks. As he settled into his new life, those meetings stretched farther and farther apart, until Emil could sleep on his own once more._

\--

Emil woke to the jaunty jingling of his phone alarm and the remarkable peace of a Saturday morning. He took a moment to bask in the silence and comfortable light spilling from under his door before remembering he had work at the tattoo parlor that day, and a busy day of work at that. Aside from a check-in on the latest piece, Taru had arranged all manner of appointments that day, each with Emil sitting in and even inking some smaller pieces. He blew an indignant raspberry at the thought but sat up on his mattress anyway, mentally preparing himself for the day.

Fortunately, his cousins weren’t quite up yet and he had time to go through his morning routine in peace. Emil reveled in his grooming practices, particularly when he had time to do them _properly,_ and after a solid ten minutes of meticulous applications of oils and creams and patient brushing of his hair, Emil finally felt like an actual person; a vast improvement from the previous day. 

By the time he went downstairs for breakfast, he realized Siv and Torbjörn weren’t up yet and he would have to make food for himself. He might as well leave early and pick up food on the way to the parlor. 

He only brought his backpack and sketchbook with him, as he had plans after having his sketch appraised, and even then he could feel his nerves rise into his throat. Even if Taru knew more or less everything he’d been up to as of late, it didn’t make him any less nervous to show her the fruits of his labor. The train ride felt longer than normal as he agonized over the rest of his day; even if his shift was long, it ended mid-evening and he was desperately hoping Hotakainen Floral would still be open and that he would have enough time to work on his sketch and maybe try to talk properly to Lalli and thank him and- 

There he went again. Emil had to fight the urge to knock his head with his fist to stop the torrent of thoughts when he was hit with the realization that he hadn’t yet started the Finnish course and without it, there was no way he was going to make any progress communicating with his new, prickly friend. It was a welcome distraction from his anxiety and the cheerful owl mascot, even if it was ultimately just pixels, served as a strangely calming presence as he stumbled through the first few lessons. Something in that cute, rounded design reminded him just a little bit of Tuuri, demeanor and all. She seemed just as talented with languages, maybe she could give him some pointers, especially as - assumedly - a native speaker.

As he progressed, he made the groundbreaking discovery that Finnish was, indeed, as weird as he had heard it was. He was definitely going to need someone’s help.

The weather was still sticky and somewhat unpleasant, Emil noted as he exited Stockholms Centralstation, but his determination to find food and get to work on time outweighed the discomfort of his shirt beginning to cling to his back. Even if Starbucks was a tad pricey, it was convenient and Emil had _standards,_ damn it, and one bagel later and with a venti iced coffee in hand, he was speedwalking to the parlor, basking in the shade cast by the tall, smooth-stone buildings. 

The tattoo parlor itself was situated on the corner of a block with bold signage declaring: “Amaryllis Ink - by reservation only” in both English and Swedish, with the parlor’s namesake flower stamped on the glass door and across the windows in a crisp, minimalist outline. The lobby itself was sparsely populated by the receptionist and two or three waiting clients, some of whom Emil recognized, and although being a storefront in Norrmalm, its decor was far from the clean, modern aesthetic so many other stores flaunted. 

The furniture was mismatched and came from a variety of vendors, ranging from a long, studded leather couch to a low, teal futon. The walls were a deep, sophisticated red and the bare framework ceiling was painted a matte black and from its beams hung several different kinds of bulbs and lanterns. The walls were almost completely covered by posters and prints of previous tattoos, some even being hung in extravagant frames. On the coffee table in the center stood a giant, untamed spider plant, and even though he couldn’t see it, Emil knew it was strewn with magazines just waiting for clients to pick up. Despite the chaotic aesthetic, artists will be artists and every component was calculated and intentional. It was still an upscale place, after all.

Emil opened the door as gracefully as he could while taking a long sip of his coffee, sending the chimes above the door jingling, alerting the receptionist to his presence. 

“Good morning, Västerström,” he greeted, half-lidded eyes trained on him and hands folded quietly. Even when simply greeting Emil, Mikkel Madsen never failed to seem like he could see right through him _._ Or maybe that was Emil being in his own head again. 

Even if he was quiet and reserved most of the time, Mikkel seemed like an okay guy, for the most part. Except for when he heated up his lunch in the community microwave. Whatever he cooked apparently was always cursed to smell absolutely vile whenever reheated, and he had long since begun to doubt his coworker’s standard of food safety. 

“Morning, Madsen,” Emil greeted in a similar fashion, trying very hard to appear put-together.

“Taru’s with a client at the moment, but I’m sure she’d love to know you’re here,” he said, Danish roots clear in his accent. “You can head back,” he dismissed, suddenly preoccupied with something on his screen. As Emil walked around the desk and into the parlor, he caught a glimpse of what looked like a university football game. 

Emil grumbled a bit but brushed it off as quickly as he could as he slipped around the highly polished desk and through the vaguely Eastern screen partition that separated the waiting room from the studio itself. 

The parlor had the same basic look as the front room, but the organized chaos was nowhere to be found, exchanged in favor of each artist’s personal tastes, the narrow screens between each area and the walls decorated however the owner saw fit, from Thea’s space on the far corner decked out in Japanese pop culture paraphernalia and Nendoroids to Sigrun’s posters of old Norwegian metal bands and general Viking-y props. She’d even blown money on a metal replica of an Ulfbehrt to hang on her wall above her shrine to Darkthrone.

Emil nervously adjusted his grip on his sketchbook as he approached Taru’s space, a significantly more polished place than the rest of the parlor, only decorated with photos of her family, commemorative pictures from past tattoo conventions, and prints of her own pieces strung up between the odd reference to her home country. As Mikkel had said, she was busy with a client, but from what Emil could see, Taru seemed to be finishing up, the hard focus in her expression softening into one of satisfaction as she swiped away the last droplets of blood and ink. 

Emil stood by awkwardly, watching as Taru wrapped the client’s fresh tattoo in the clear plastic and giving the same speech on proper aftercare that she had recited a thousand times. She and the client left to finalize payments and reservations at the front desk, and he watched them pass, hoping to catch a glimpse of what Taru had left behind on their skin, but all he got was the shine of plastic and the pair disappearing behind the screen. He stood awkwardly, waiting for his mentor to return. When she did, her expression was sly. “Good morning, Emil,” she said, an almost knowing smile on her face. “Trying to admire my client?” 

He muttered a reply, embarrassed he had been caught staring and walked quickly with Taru into her space and the ambient glow of her fairy lights. “So, tell me about your flowers.” Her grin only widened as she watched Emil start a little. He was unbelievably obvious, he knew. 

He put on a facade of calm as he pulled out one of Taru’s extra rolling seats and set down his bag, suddenly very aware of the sketchbook he had tucked under his arm and the coffee that he had nowhere to put. “They’re very pretty,” he decided, trying very hard to appear nonchalant as he flipped to the most anxiety-producing page in his sketchbook. 

“I’m glad you’re enjoying Ensi’s product. She’s very proud of her business,” she replied, moving to clean up her tray and sanitize the chair. “But I digress. Why don’t you show me how your sketch is going?”

Emil stared at the half-finished piece of the flowers on his page. Even if he was terrified of the idea of having his art appraised by his mentor, he couldn’t help but be proud of what progress he’d made. Already the work looked infinitely better than the messy smudges of eraser and graphite on previous pages. Thanks to Lalli’s weird talent for arranging flowers, this might actually turn out. Then came the issue of actually inking this onto a body, but Emil would have time to worry about that later, he thought as he handed the open sketchbook to Taru.

She spent a few seconds looking over the page, which to Emil felt like hours of watching her every microexpression, and gave a “hm” of approval as he handed it back to him. “What you have so far looks good, just remember not to be afraid to add contrast. I look forward to seeing the finished product,” she gave a wink as she finished. 

“Of course,” Emil replied, screaming internally that my God, it _hadn’t_ been a mortifying disaster and that maybe he wasn’t as screwed as he thought after all. 

The rest of the day passed quickly, Emil riding the high of whatever hormones had flooded his system after Taru gave her stamp of approval, and as the clients came and went, each with a new little piece of art in their skin, even if Emil found himself worrying. He was just finishing up another client’s linework when he heard a boisterous “Hey!” from behind him.

He tried to hold back the embarrassing yelp that came out of him and just barely missed ruining a perfectly good line as he recovered from the shock. He whipped around to find the culprit of his distraction; who else could it be but the red-haired troublemaker herself, decked out in black and tattooed up to the chin, Sigrun Eide?

“Sigrun!” Emil tried not to whine in front of his client. “I’m working!”

“I can see that,” she replied, a devilish grin on her face.

“And…?”

“And I wanna see what my favorite pipsqueak is up to,” she said as she leaned over the newly-inked patch of skin, ignoring Taru’s raised eyebrow.

She hummed in what sounded like approval once she saw the linework and promptly backed away, choosing instead to lean against the solid wall of Taru’s area, trying her best to avoid the decorations. 

Emil continued his work in the uncomfortable silence, the only sounds being the buzz of the tattoo machine and the faint sound of the studio’s music. Eventually, Taru spoke up, only a vague hint of annoyance in her voice, “Don’t you have any clients coming soon?” 

“Nope,” Sigrun replied in a self-satisfied voice. “That’s part of the reason I’m over here.”

Her attention shifted to Emil as he completed the final touches on his linework. “So, you gonna be free for lunch with Mikkel and me? There’s this great new sushi place a few blocks down; you should totally come with.”

Emil wiped away the last rivulets of ink and blood and began to wrap up the tender skin. “Mikkel? Really? The dude gives off some weird vibes, how on earth are you friends with him?”

“Well, first of all, rude, and _second_ ,” she pushed herself away from the wall and stood beside him, arms crossed. “If I can make friends with you, I can make friends with anyone, Mr. Snooty-pants. And seriously, Mikkel’s just quiet. Plus he’s totally paying so you’re gonna have to be nice to him so he doesn’t send all the asshole clients to you.”

Emil finished giving the aftercare speech to his client, making sure to apologize for Sigrun’s interruption. Taru stood to escort the client out, giving silent permission for him to continue his conversation. “Friends in high places, huh? I guess that’s how you always end up with all the decent clients,” he said, scooting over to the low sink in the corner to wash his hands and toss his used gloves into the small can beside it. 

“So are you coming or not? Need I remind you, _Normmalm sushi_.” 

Emil groaned dramatically, only playing it up a little bit. He was getting pretty hungry and the idea of lunch at some classy sushi joint was _very_ appealing. “Fine, I don’t have anyone coming for a while. You’re telling Taru, though.”

“That’s my boy!” Emil yelped as she suddenly - and very forcefully - slung an arm around him and delivered a friendly chest punch. “I’ll be in the lounge.”

She strolled out with a nonchalant “See ya out there, squirt,” and a short backward wave. Emil rubbed his chest. As he turned to grab his stuff and leave, he remembered Taru likely wouldn’t appreciate having to clean up after him, so he took a minute to at least tidy up the inks. He was pretty much bailing on her, after all, so maybe taking care of his own mess would keep her from getting too annoyed. Once satisfied, he hefted his bag onto his shoulders, finished off his coffee, and jogged out to meet Sigrun and… Mikkel.

It wasn’t that Emil completely _disliked_ him, per se, it was more that they didn’t seem to connect on a level beyond polite acquaintances. Not for a lack of trying, anyway. Maybe it was Emil’s age that put him off - a ten-or-so-year friendship gap was apparently a no go - or just that Mikkel’s accent was so indecipherable, but Emil realized it was probably going to be a fruitless venture. Then how did Sigrun do it? Sure, Emil was a bit on the uptight side, but surely Sigrun’s constant manic energy wasn’t the preferred alternative, right? 

Either way, he had committed to lunch with the two and he wasn’t about to back out on it just because he couldn’t hold a conversation with one of them. Besides, there was no way he was about to pass up a chance for free food. 

Sigrun and Mikkel were stood by the long counter, engaged in a conversation with Taru as they waited for Emil, and Emil briefly wondered who would be manning the receptionist’s desk while they were out. 

“There he is!” Sigrun exclaimed as she threw her arms out. “Ready to go?”

Emil glanced at Mikkel, then Taru then replied with as much confidence as he could muster, “Yep. Who’s gonna be working at the receptionist’s desk while we’re out?”

“Sigrun very graciously asked if I would,” Taru said coolly, apparently already filling the role of “quietly judgemental receptionist.” She continued, “I’m sure it isn’t that difficult. Besides, you have an hour and a half before your next client. I’m sure you’ll be back by then.”

“Not to worry, Taru, We’ll be back before you know it,” Sigrun assured with a confident grin. “Let’s roll out!”

The walk to the restaurant wasn’t awful, as Sigrun was happy to keep the conversation going between the three - mostly between her and Emil, as it seemed Mikkel was content to fiddle with his phone as they walked - and Emil felt that despite his apprehension towards spending time with Mikkel, it appeared there wouldn’t be much actual interaction. Even if there was a nagging feeling at the back of his head that maybe he shouldn’t be so content about it.

The sushi place was just as fancy as Emil expected an upscale Normmalm restaurant would be, all low lights and crisp, modern furniture, waiters in simple black uniforms serving business people on lunch break, and he suddenly felt extremely conspicuous in his torn jeans and t-shirt, not to mention he was standing next to Sigrun, a woman with practically no limits when it came to fashion. At least Mikkel looked like he kind of belonged there.

A waiter came over, whom Sigrun made small talk with as he led them to a comfy corner space and left them with their menus. Even the wait staff, huh.

As Emil scanned over the menu, looking for something that caught his eye, he felt his phone buzz in his pocket. A text from Taru, he saw when he checked his phone.

[Taru Hollola]

I got a text from Tuuri, she wants to know when you’ll be back. She can’t take care of those flowers forever, you know ;)

Dammit, Tuuri.

Emil groaned and returned to his menu, now trying desperately to find something appealing if only to ignore his phone. “What’s with the groaning?” It seemed Sigrun was not going to let him.

“It’s a long story,” he tried to dismiss, pretending to peruse the fried rice options but if Sigrun was anything, she was persistent.

“Well, we have, what, an hour and fifteen minutes or something? It can’t be that long,” she replied with ease, toying with her fork.

As if it would do anything, Emil looked with desperation at Mikkel, who simply shrugged. “I don’t know what you want me to do here,” he said, actually reading the menu.

“See? Even Mikkel thinks so,” she said with satisfaction, twirling her fork for emphasis. “So. Spill.”

Emil whined and let his head flop back onto the booth’s cushions, wondering why exactly he had agreed to this lunch again and that he could have _easily_ just said no and kept his whole situation under wraps, maybe raid the kitchen or something, and deal with his petty issues in peace. “C’mon, kid, you’re two against one here. It can’t be _that_ bad.”

“I will if you stop calling me that.”

Sigrun smirked, saying: “I make no promises,” clearly not intending to drop the name. 

Even so, Emil was pretty much cornered. Maybe if he talked about it he would feel better? It might be enough to get Sigrun off his back, anyway. “Whatever.”

He lifted his head to look at her, smiling in victory and leaning back in her seat, now flipping the fork between her fingers. “Ok, look. It’s stupid and I don’t know why I’m getting worked up over it so much but I’m stressed out over tattooing,” he said in the most flippant way he could. It fell flat. 

“Okay,” Sigrun encouraged, fork going still in her hand. 

“Taru’s having me work on my first _real_ piece, designing it, inking it, everything, and I want to be able to do it right, right? So I’m spending all this time working myself up about it and getting so annoyed with myself and that I had to buy a reference. Buy a _reference_ for a flower piece. Like, yeah, flowers are weird or whatever but I’ve seen a million flowers, and now that I’m actually talking about it I’m realizing this problem is stupid so I’m gonna stop now.”

Emil’s face was hot and red when he finished, thoroughly embarrassed by the absolutely pitiful scale of his otherwise trying situation. He was fully expecting for Sigrun to bark laugh and brush him off as she did to most other problems she faced, but as he dared to look at her, he saw her lips pressed in a thin line and her head bobbing affirmatively. “Yeah, I get that.”

“Wh- seriously?”

“Y’know, Emil, believe it or not, I was once a tenderfoot like yourself,” she replied airily, returning to fiddling with her fork. “Once upon a time I was terrified to ink anyone, let alone design a custom piece.”

Of course, everyone had to start somewhere, but all he’d known Sigrun for was her apparent never-ending confidence and good spirits and the mere idea of her being afraid of anything wasn’t quite landing. 

“You wanna know what I think? I say you’re overthinking it.”

“I know that, that’s why I’m upset.”

Sigrun frowned. “You’re overthinking it because you’re worried about what Taru will think, her prized apprentice having to - gasp - use a reference for a complicated piece. They do use references at the Institute, right?”

Of course they did. Why wouldn’t they? They were a well-respected institute of classical art, references were practically invented there. But Emil was supposed to be a prodigy, the son of one of their finest and most successful alumni with his brain pre-wired to see everything perfectly because he was the son of one of Sweden’s most famous artists and here he was, failing at being a tattoo artist.

“Yes, I get it, references are important. But flowers? _Really_?”

Sigrun sighed. “Ok, dude, I know what I’m gonna say is gonna sound cheesy and overused, but let us harness the power of positive affirmation. I’m gonna give you homework.”

By this time the waiter had dropped off their complimentary waters, he hoped Mikkel had thanked him for them, so he took a lingering sip, prompting Sigrun to continue.

“I’m gonna ask you to, every time your brain tells you you’re untalented or whatever for needing a reference, I want you to tell it: ‘References are okay to use.’ It doesn’t matter if you believe it or not right now because the whole point is that you’re basically percussive maintenance-ing your brain into working. Which is pretty hardcore if you ask me.”

Emil raised an eyebrow, skeptical. Sigrun spotted this and rolled her eyes. “God, don’t give me that look. Just promise me you’ll try.”

Emil set his glass down with a firm clack and made direct contact with Sigrun’s challenging violet gaze and uttered a single word: “Fine.”

“Good man,” she said, maintaining eye contact, reaching for her glass and clinking it against the lip of his, letting the resonant tone ring in the silence between them. “It’s a deal.”

She looked over his shoulder suddenly, firm expression melting into one of relief. “Finally, coming to take our order. Try not to empty Mikkel’s wallet right away.”

The rest of lunch passed by rather pleasantly with minimal conversation, most of it already spent on their exchange before they ordered their food. As expected, it was delicious and the giant shared plate of sushi was gone before they’d even made a dent in their entrees, which turned out to be the best mistake Emil ever made because that meant he could take home the rest of his enormous pile of fried rice and maybe, if his cousins didn’t get to it first, he could save it for an 11 pm dinner in front of the TV. Mikkel was as gracious as ever, silently paying for the meal and ignoring Sigrun’s self-satisfied smirk.

They left content, chatting lazily as the post-lunch food coma began to set in, and as soon as they reached Amaryllis Ink, Emil had a thought. He waited for Sigrun to burst through the doors before turning to Mikkel. “Hey, Madsen.”

Mikkel turned. “Hm?”

Emil fought down his sudden awkwardness and said, to the best of his ability, “Thanks for paying. I appreciate it.”

Mikkel nodded with a cool “hmm” and replied as he caught the door, “No problem, Västerström.”

And he let out a satisfied sigh as he followed him in.

Emil had had enough of baring his insecurities for the day and chose not to discuss his hangups with Taru, deciding instead to take Sigrun’s advice to heart and trying his level best to tell himself that it was okay to need references. He wasn’t a master and even Da Vinci needed a model to paint the Mona Lisa. It didn’t change his feelings about the whole situation, but it got him through the rest of the day. He was just washing his hands and cleaning up after his last client when Taru pulled him aside. “How was lunch?” she asked nonchalantly, clearly trying to lead into another heartfelt talk.

“I got your text, if that’s what you’re wondering,” Emil responded, pausing to look in the mirror and fix his hair. 

“Hm, too clever for your own good,” she halfheartedly teased. “Anyway, why didn’t you just tell me you wanted a reference? I could’ve helped you, you know.”

“I don’t know.”

“I think you do know.”

“Okay, I _do_ , I just don’t want to talk about it right now.”

Taru sighed. “Okay. Just… I know this is a significant milestone and you want to do your best and get on your feet, but I’m your mentor. I don’t want you to feel like you have to do this on your own.”

His voice raised a little. “I said I don’t want to talk about it, Taru.” 

“Fine. Just ask for help next time.”

Emil slung his backpack onto his shoulders and gave a half-wave as he speed-walked out of the parlor and off to the metro station. Maybe some drawing would do him some good.

He spent the whole commute to Södermalm in his head, trying to repeat Sigrun’s mantra between berating himself for being a jerk to Taru. She was his mentor and would clearly do more than he expected to help him succeed. Maybe she thought he would be a great artist someday and wanted to help get him out there, but he was too damn stubborn to take any of her help. Damn that art academy, damn his stupid ego, damn his father, wherever he was. Probably on some boat on the Mediterranean, sipping on cocktails and telling someone else to manage his money, maybe check in on his son, he thought sourly. The crowds in the shopping district were too cheerful and the little bird on the Hotakainen Floral sign was too perky and Emil felt a little bit like he was going to cry. Maybe of frustration or some kind of weird sadness, he couldn’t tell. He suddenly didn’t know if he wanted to draw those flowers anymore. So he stood outside the door, staring blankly at the handle.

At least, he did until Tuuri yanked it open with an enthusiastic greeting, sending the bells above the door tinkling and causing her lanky cousin to whip his head around to stare at the commotion. Emil forced a smile, preferring not to unload his issues onto practical strangers and possibly cry in front of them, and returned Tuuri’s energetic reception with the most enthusiasm he could muster, which wasn’t a whole lot.

“Hey,” he said in as chipper of a voice as he could muster, which wasn’t very chipper at all, but if Tuuri noticed, she didn’t say so, choosing instead to usher him in and towards the seating area.

“Did Taru tell you I texted? I didn’t know when you would be back so I wanted to make sure I was giving proper attention to your arrangement,” she continued, only pausing to encourage Lalli to talk, to which she got an apathetic response quickly followed by a noticeably cold shoulder. 

She sighed and trotted off to the backroom, tossing an “I’ll be back in a moment,” leaving Emil to take a seat at the back of the store. He practically deflated into the overstuffed chair, just barely remembering that he should probably take his backpack off if he was planning to sit down for a while and shimmying off the straps and letting it drop with an unceremonious thump.

Tuuri returned with the familiar bouquet of flowers cradled carefully in her hands and she put it down on the coffee table with an odd sort of concentration and removed the plastic bag from the vase to reveal the vibrant blossoms beneath it. “Let me know if you need anything else, I know we have drinks somewhere…”

Emil waved his hands frantically. “No, it’s fine! I’m good.”

Tuuri smiled brightly. “Well, just tell me if you need anything,” she finished, turning on her heel and walking back behind the counter to continue her work. 

Emil let his smile fall as he stared at the flowers in front of him, the frustration boiling up in him again. God, this was so stupid. They were fucking _flowers_ for God’s sake, just a bunch of dumb colorful petals on a stalk and he couldn’t find it in him to open his sketchbook and just get it over with. _References are good_. Yeah, right. What’s the point of a reference if you can’t ink the damn thing onto someone? Forget actually believing in him, Taru was just being nice. Sigrun was pitying him. He never should have gone to Amaryllis, he should have just taken that stupid fucking apartment in the city his dad bought him and kept his head down. Is this what autonomy looked like? Sitting in a dumbass flower shop, staring at something he didn’t even know if he could finish? He didn’t know. He didn’t know. 

He hated this. 

It was only when he felt a hot droplet land on his hand that he realized he had started crying. “Ah, shit,” he scrubbed at his eyes, trying to wipe away the telltale tear tracks and rub the stinging sensation out of his nose. 

As if things weren’t bad enough already, as if he needed to feel worse about himself and make everyone around him uncomfortable-

“Um, would you like some tea?”

Emil’s head shot up and he looked Tuuri in the face, surprised and still fighting not to cry. When he didn’t respond right away, she said in a hurried voice, “I mean, we just started some hot water in back a few minutes ago and you looked like you might want some.”

To hell with his pride, he thought, he’s already cried in front of these people, however subdued it may have been. “Yeah. Sure.”

Tuuri offered a smile, sympathetic as a mere acquaintance could be, and hurried off to the back room, kicking a doorstop under the heavy wood door. She came back almost as quickly as she had left, now expertly holding three mismatching mugs of steaming water, strings and tags dangling off their lips. She set a single mug of tea on the counter, said something to Lalli, to which he said something in reply, it was a thank you, if Emil heard correctly, and returned to the coffee table, setting a large, blue mug in front of him. “I hope you don’t mind lavender,” she said, bringing her own mug up to take a sip, “this kind is pretty sweet.”

Emil carefully took the mug by the handle and took an experimental taste. It was floral and perhaps a bit minty, but could really use some honey. Oh well, she’d already gotten him the tea and he didn’t know if his conscience could take it if he asked her to sweeten it for him. “It’s good,” he assured, letting himself settle back into the chair. 

“So, are you feeling okay?”

Emil took another sip. “I don’t feel like talking about it right now.”

Tuuri hummed. “That’s fair, it seems troubling.” 

An awkward silence settled between the two, the only noises being the humming of the air conditioner and Emil’s pants shifting as his knee bounced. He really needed to say something; he could tell she was stiff and uncomfortable and he probably looked the same to her. “Um… I started learning Finnish,” he said clumsily, the statement coming out more like a question than a confident conversation-starter. 

However, it seemed to pique her interest. “Is that so?” she said, a half-smile growing on her face. “And what possessed you to do that?” 

“Uh,” he paused. “I dunno, I guess Taru rubbed off on me.”

“Mhmm.”

Perhaps not just the hair color was some obscure recessive Finnish trait. Apparently, every Finn he knew - just the three so far - could read his mind like someone sharpied his deepest thoughts and insecurities right on his forehead. Or maybe the Hotakainen clan was just gifted in the area. Either way, Tuuri could read him like a book. 

As if to rub in the fact that Emil had no mind-reading powers to speak of, she followed her casual response up with, “Y’know, I could probably help you out with that one.”

To Emil’s surprise, the day turned around after what he assumed would be an agonizing visit to Hotakainen Floral. Maybe it was just that he had given up on his pride for the day or that the lavender tea was just _especially_ relaxing, but he found himself unwinding a little bit, forgetting about the flowers and his stress and the crying as Tuuri began coaching him in the new, strange language. What felt like just a few minutes of discussion turned out to be far longer, as their conversation was cut short by Lalli’s only slightly annoyed reminder to Tuuri that they couldn’t keep customers in after closing (at least that’s what he assumed he had said, based on the glances cast his way). Emil had just picked up his stuff, said goodbye to Tuuri, promising to come back, and was heading out the door when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned around, surprised, and saw none other than Lalli, who promptly spoke. “You will feel better now,” he said, tone just short of a command, and handed him something, only to turn around and walk off. 

Emil looked down, a little baffled, and saw that he held a tiny, four-leaf clover between his fingers. 

Even as he walked the streets of Södermalm, stood in the corner of a train car, and wandered the rest of the way home as evening colors swathed the sky, the little clover stayed safe between his fingers. Lalli’s attempt at comfort - which it was as far as Emil could tell - was a little peculiar, yet he found himself oddly reassured by the little thing. He could probably get a little dish and some water and keep it alive for a bit, just long enough to get him through his commission maybe, okay, that was a stretch, but it would get him through the rest of his sketch. 

As he fumbled with his keys at the door of his house, he was hit by a sudden realization. He couldn’t keep that four-leaf clover alive forever, but there might be a different way to keep it around.

Emil scooted into the house, dodging Bosse as he weaved around his legs and tossing his backpack next to his spot on the couch. Before he’d even kicked off his shoes, he was pulling out his sketchbook and a sketching pencil and flipping to the page he had been dreading to look at all day. That’s a good corner for it, he thought as he carefully drew a little clover nestled between the petals. It may not have been true to life quite yet, but he could always fix it later when he went back.

\---

Siv and Torbjörn waited until the kids had been put to bed to pour milk into their designated cocoa pan, and Emil waited for them to congregate in the kitchen before cracking open his leftover fried rice and shoveling it into his mouth. He’d forgotten how hungry he was, he was so in his head that afternoon. He had almost finished the last of the container when he heard a voice call from the kitchen. “We made extra, want any?”

It was Siv, holding out a steaming mug of hot cocoa in his direction, two marshmallows floating on the surface. 

Oh.

Everyone was especially generous today, it seemed. 

Oh, well. He wasn’t about to pass up a premade mug of hot cocoa.

“Sure. Thanks.”

Emil made his way into the kitchen, illuminated only by the dim lighting of the living room, awkwardly accepting the drink and standing off by the fridge, very _away_ from his aunt and uncle. It had been so long since he last joined them in this practice, why were they inviting him back now? 

“Emil, we should probably have a chat.”

Emil perked up at Torbjörn’s voice. “What is it?”

Torbjörn’s brows furrowed as he spoke. “My brother sent us an email today. Well, not him _exactly_ but it’s from his office.”

Emil’s response was cautious. “What did he say?”

“He’s offering to cover your living expenses if you move.”

Emil groaned. Not this again. He didn’t care if that man offered to buy him a stable of fucking _ponies_ for every missed birthday, he wasn’t biting. “Right. As if.”

This time, Siv spoke, “Emil, you know we’ve been having trouble holding down any jobs. And having someone extra stay in the house is…”

They couldn’t seriously be insinuating-?

So much for generosity. Emil set down his drink. “I’m not taking it. I’ll find some way to pay you two.”

“Your apprenticeship barely pays you. And you have school, are you really going to get a job on top of that?”

“So what if I do? I don’t care what it takes, I’m not accepting it.”

Siv sighed. Torbjörn put a hand on her shoulder. “Okay. Okay, we don’t have to discuss this now,” he interrupted. “It’s late. We can talk tomorrow.”

And with that, they left, mugs still full and Emil glaring at his dissolving marshmallows. It’s like his dad was just looming over his shoulder wherever he went. No matter how far away he moved, how many times he blocked his email, he still found a way to weasel in. Emil kind of wanted to throw something, blow something up maybe, anything to make these feelings go away.

He decided to pour out his drink into the sink. He’d had enough for one night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, freakin' finally. This was way more than I thought I had written. Anyway, I'm alive! I hope you guys enjoy this chapter because my God did it take me ages to get through. 
> 
> Siena


End file.
